


in the shadow of your heart

by hakyeonni



Category: VIXX
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Angst, Blow Jobs, Chicago (City), Frottage, Hopeful Ending, Jazz Age, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 09:46:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13972431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hakyeonni/pseuds/hakyeonni
Summary: the snow falls softly all around them, blanketing chicago in a veil of silent white, but still all hongbin wants, all he’s ever wanted, is taekwoon.





	in the shadow of your heart

_The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out_   
_You left me in the dark_   
_No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight_   
_In the shadow of your heart_   
_Florence + The Machine — Cosmic Love_

 

**_1st February 1924_ **   
**_Chicago, Illinois_ **

The snow is falling softly all around them, blanketing the city in a veil of silent white, but still Hongbin only has eyes for Taekwoon.

“You don’t like it?” he asks, and if Hongbin’s not mistaken he sounds nervous, which is strange. He’s usually so unflappable.

Hongbin takes a hesitant step closer, his shoes sinking into the untouched snow, fingers clenching and unclenching in either an attempt to ward off the cold or an attempt to ward off the urge to touch Taekwoon, he can’t quite tell which. “It’s beautiful,” he breathes, and in the space between his words tries to get Taekwoon to see everything he can’t say. _You’re beautiful._

The city is spread out in front of them like it’s theirs for the taking, and Hongbin’s never really felt he belonged here, but tonight he feels like it’s his, _theirs_ , and now that he’s close enough to touch he does, reaching for Taekwoon’s gloved hand to link their fingers together. He doesn’t really have the words to describe what this piece of sentimentality means to him, because from everything he’s observed Taekwoon doesn’t seem to be the sentimental type, but the fact that he’s brought them up here, to the roof of the little jazz bar where they first met, makes his heart do things he’s never felt it do before.

Taekwoon’s got the brim of the fedora he always wears pulled down low so Hongbin can’t see his eyes, but this is one of the first times Hongbin’s seen him without a cigarette or a drink in his hands, and so when he reaches to tilt Taekwoon’s chin up he has nothing to do except stare Hongbin down. His gaze is guarded. Hongbin expected as much. He would be lying if he said his own heart wasn’t jackhammering in his chest, so loud he’s surprised Taekwoon can’t hear it—but then, Taekwoon brought him up here for a reason, didn’t he?

“Hongbin,” Taekwoon whispers, swaying closer. “I—I want—”

Hongbin goes very, very still, lets Taekwoon’s arms slide around his waist, not daring to breathe. “What do you want?” he asks, ignoring the way the damning way the cross that Taekwoon’s always wearing is glinting at him in the moonlight.

Instead of saying anything, though, Taekwoon closes the distance between them to pull Hongbin into a kiss that’s clumsy but—oh, that doesn’t matter, because Hongbin nearly swoons in Taekwoon’s arms, his heart full to bursting as he throws both arms around Taekwoon and deepens the kiss.

The snow falls softly all around them, blanketing the city in a veil of silent white, but still all Hongbin wants, all he’s ever wanted, is Taekwoon.

 

**_12th December 1923_ **   
**_Chicago, Illinois_ **

“You’re kidding, right?”

Even as Hongbin says this he can tell that they’re _not_ kidding, much to his dismay; they’re standing there expectantly, hats in hand, mirrors of each other even if Hongbin knows they’d both protest if he pointed that out. Jaehwan and Sanghyuk like to pretend they’re complete opposites, but even though that might appear to be true on the surface, they’re more alike than they’d care to admit. It’s quite endearing, really. He’s admired their dynamic since he met them six months ago.

“Don’t skip out on us now,” Sanghyuk says with a pout, flopping down onto Hongbin’s bed dramatically. “The Kelly sisters are legends. You _have_ to see them!”

Hongbin turns to look at Jaehwan—loitering in the doorway of Hongbin’s bedroom, simply because the apartment is so small that with Hongbin at the desk and Sanghyuk on the bed there’s nowhere else to sit—to plead mercy, but Jaehwan just grins at him and takes a defiant drag of the cigarette he’s holding. “They’re great, and this bar is just fantastic. Trust me. A little hole in the wall place. Plays the best jazz you’ve ever heard.”

Hongbin has one hand resting on his desk, on top of the paperwork that he was meant to be doing tonight, and he’s about to refuse again when Sanghyuk reaches inside his jacket pocket and pulls out a flask, waving it at Hongbin gleefully. “Still can’t convince you? I guess Jaehwan and I will have to have this…”

“Give me that,” Hongbin says, reaching to snatch the flask, still warm from being pressed up against Sanghyuk’s side. Damn him, damn the both of them; they know his weakness for whiskey and exploit it shamelessly, thanks to Sanghyuk’s mysterious never-ending supply (he says his family has a stockpile of it, but Hongbin doubts that). “Fine. Let’s go.”

Sanghyuk makes the mistake of handing the flask back to him as they’re walking to the bar, and by the time Hongbin hands it back to him it’s empty and Sanghyuk shakes it at him reproachfully. “Really?”

“It’s good stuff,” Hongbin says with a shrug, smiling to himself as the whiskey warms his throat and belly and begins to turn the world pleasantly fuzzy.

He knows that he should have stayed home. He knows that the mountain of paperwork he has to do is only going to seem bigger when he staggers home tonight and wakes tomorrow with a headache the size of Texas, reeking of cigarette smoke and with his ears ringing from listening to jazz all night. But he’s smiling as they traipse through the streets, listening to Sanghyuk and Jaehwan bicker as they pass Jaehwan’s flask back and forth (he begs to have a sip, but Jaehwan just rolls his eyes). It’s dreadfully cold—and he just wasn’t made to cope with this sort of weather—and the snow has turned to grey slush on the sidewalks, but even so he just can’t stop. The magic that captivated him from the very first moment he stepped off the train from Georgia two years ago is still surrounding him, warming him from the inside out even as their fingers slowly start to seize up.

They find the bar after wandering around for far too long (“I swear it was down here?” Sanghyuk says for the third time as they stand in a dank alley) and the moment they step inside they’re assaulted by noise and smells, so overwhelming Hongbin has to take a few moments to adjust.

“Drink?” Jaehwan yells in his ear over the sound of the lively jazz band that’s playing in front of the stage towards the front.

Hongbin nods, and they make their way to the bar. No one bats an eyelid when Jaehwan orders three whiskeys, neat; Hongbin smiles wryly and looks down at the bar as they’re served. “If my parents could see this,” he says, more to himself than to Jaehwan, but he must overhear because he bumps him with his elbow.

“Your parents?” When Hongbin shrugs and takes a sip of his whiskey—not as nice as Sanghyuk’s, but still pretty good—he raises his eyebrows. “They’re drys?”

“If my daddy knew his son was imbibing in the demon drink in Sin City,” Hongbin drawls, letting his accent slip through, “he’d drop stone-cold dead before I could say another damn word.”

Jaehwan just stares at him for a moment, his eyes wide. Hongbin isn’t surprised. He doesn’t get it, and probably never will; they’re worlds apart, the circumstances of their birth drawing lines in the sand for them before his accent ever can. By never revealing these parts of himself to them he’s managed to earn their respect—something he’s learned does not come easy in this city—but now he can see the wheels turning in Jaehwan’s head, knows that this information has made something click.

“Well,” he says eventually, and clinks his glass with Hongbin’s own, winking cheerfully. “Welcome to Hell, my friend.”

If this is what Hell looks like, Hongbin’s pretty content to head there after he kicks the bucket. The bar is hazy with cigarette smoke, dimly-lit and crowded with people. Everywhere Hongbin looks he can see couples twined around each other, the women in fringed dresses and dancing shoes and the men in fine suits; the band is playing as if their life depended on it, and several people have gotten up to dance, drinks in hand, heads tipped back as they laugh. It’s the very picture of decadence and hedonism, and it’s everything he loves and hates about this city, all in one.

“Come on,” Sanghyuk yells, weaving his way through the crowd to wave them over. “They’re about to start.”

He’s managed to secure them a table relatively close to the low stage, so they take their seats, Hongbin pressing the drink Jaehwan’d bought into Sanghyuk’s hands and grinning as they clink glasses. From here they have a good view of the band, and Hongbin stares at them absentmindedly as he runs a finger around the rim of his glass, not really paying any attention at all until he spots the piano player.

It’s his posture that Hongbin notices first, because he’s had good posture beaten into him—sometimes literally—from birth, and this piano player is hunched over so much it makes Hongbin’s shoulders ache to look at. It’s not until he looks up, glancing towards the trumpet player, that Hongbin really gets a good look at him, and then he finds it hard to breathe in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the cigarette Jaehwan’s just lit up. He’s pretty, in a pale, sour-faced kind of way, and even though Hongbin recognises the sinking feeling in his chest he’s intrigued regardless.

 _Shit_.

He turns away to look at the stage right as two women—presumably the Kelly sisters—rise up from the stage, his face flaming. But even as they start their number, he can’t really concentrate. He’d thought he was past this, but he can’t stop staring at the piano player out of the corner of his eye, paying no attention to the women on stage. The way the lights undulate over his face only serves to make him more interesting-looking, and whenever he gets to a particularly difficult part in the music he sticks his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrates on getting the notes down. It’s adorable, and if Hongbin’s heart skips a beat every time he sees it he tells himself it’s just pent-up sexual frustration and nothing more; he won’t allow it to be anything more, because he just can’t do this now, not again.

“Another?” he asks the others over the applause as the sisters make their way offstage, holding up his glass.

He goes to the bar with every intention of buying them each a drink. But when the bartender asks what he wants, his mouth moves before his brain can catch up, and then before he can really process what he’s doing he’s making his way towards the piano with two glasses of gin in his hands, his head spinning. It doesn’t help that he can feel Jaehwan and Sanghyuk’s curious stares as he goes, either, but it’s too late to back out now, because the piano player looks up as he’s running a hand through his hair and meets Hongbin’s eyes.

“Hello,” Hongbin says, and then winces. What an opening. “Great playing.”

That’s even worse, and the man just eyes him skeptically. “Thanks.”

“This is for you,” he blurts, holding up one of the glasses of gin, aware he’s coming off as completely socially inept but not knowing how to be normal, not even knowing why he’s here. “I’m Hongbin.”

For a beat he thinks the man will refuse, but then he looks Hongbin up and down, his gaze burning hot, and smiles. “I don’t normally drink at work,” he says, taking the glass from Hongbin, “but I suppose I can make an exception. Taekwoon.”

“Nice to meet you,” Hongbin says politely, raising his glass to the man and tossing back his gin in one go.

Now that his hands are free he fumbles in the breast pocket of his jacket and pulls out his cigarettes, taps one out on the top of the piano and sticks it in his mouth. His hands are shaking as he lights a match, hyper-aware of Taekwoon’s eyes on him as he sips his gin, and he hates how easy his nervousness must be to read—and for what? He’s just making a fool of himself.

“Got a light?” When Hongbin snaps back to himself, Taekwoon is holding up a cigarette of his own, hand-rolled and slightly bent. Hongbin’s first thought is _that’s endearing_ , and then his second is _how the heck is a cigarette endearing?_ but instead of trying to examine any of that closely, he just hands Taekwoon his matches. “Thanks.”

It’s painfully awkward, but at least now he can smoke and stare off into the distance instead of having to look at Taekwoon, because having him this close is proving to make his head spin. The worst part is Hongbin doesn’t even know _why_. He doesn’t know why he came over here in the first place, and he doesn’t know why he’s intrigued by this man who’s not that intriguing in the grand scheme of things. Most of all he doesn’t even know why he’s still standing here when he can feel Sanghyuk and Jaehwan’s eyes burning a hole in his back.

“You’re not from here, are you?” Taekwoon asks, once again shocking Hongbin out of his miserable reverie. When he catches sight of Hongbin’s startled expression, his eyes widen. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—I just thought—”

“It’s fine,” Hongbin sighs, and, because he’s tipsy at this point and already has nothing to lose, motions for Taekwoon to scoot over and sits down next to him at the piano. “I’m just surprised, is all. Most folks around here can’t really tell.”

Taekwoon raises an eyebrow and takes another sip of his gin, and as he does, his shirt shifts and Hongbin can see a flash of silver; he’s wearing a cross around his neck. Curious. “You don’t act like a local,” he says, and Hongbin supposes locals don’t just wander up to the piano player and start conversation—because no one gives a shit about piano players at hole-in-the-wall jazz bars around here. “But you’ve also got an accent.”

“And here I was, thinking I was good at hiding it,” Hongbin mumbles around his cigarette.

He’d learnt quickly, because no one wants to be sold a car by someone who sounds like they’re from a hick town in the middle of nowhere—which is, incidentally, exactly where he’s from. Instead he’d started speaking like a salesman, all smooth vowels and rolling consonants, a smile never far from his face, and it’s second nature now. Fitting in in this city is hard enough without his accent giving him away every time he opens his mouth; Sanghyuk and Jaehwan never even suspected.

“Can’t hide anything from me,” Taekwoon replies cheerfully—but there’s an undercurrent of something dangerous to his words, and Hongbin’s blood chills. What is he implying? Does he _know?_ He can’t, surely? And surely Hongbin can’t be imagining the way Taekwoon’s looking at him, with a gaze full of heat. The cross on his chest is awfully distracting, but…

He’s about to say something more, to continue their repartee, when the trombonist calls Taekwoon’s name. With a sigh, he stubs out his cigarette and downs the last of the gin, raising the glass at Hongbin before putting it back on top of the piano. “Thanks for the drink. Duty calls.” With this, he rolls his eyes, and Hongbin takes it as his cue and gets up. “I’ll see you around.”

 _Huh_ , Hongbin thinks as he nods, goes to tip his trilby and then realises he’s not wearing it, and settles for waving awkwardly instead before making his way bewilderedly back to his table, his heart racing in his chest.

“What the hell,” asks Sanghyuk, “was that?”

“You didn’t even get us our drinks,” Jaehwan points out, but considering how he’s nursing a near-full glass he doesn’t look too concerned.

Hongbin shrugs as he sits back down. “Just wanted to compliment him on his playing, is all,” he lies as the band strikes up again.

Sanghyuk rolls his eyes, but there’s no animosity there, and Hongbin can tell they’ve just written it off as one of his quirks. “You’re a queer one,” he says, and smiles. “The next act’s really good too.”

Now that he’s tipsy, it’s a little bit easier to lose himself in what’s happening onstage—he does love vaudeville, after all—and keep himself from glancing over at Taekwoon. This is what he tells himself, at least, because he keeps doing it when he thinks Taekwoon isn’t looking; the few times that their gazes meet a shiver runs down his spine, because Taekwoon’s always studying him with a look in his eyes like he can’t quite figure out what Hongbin’s playing at, not helped by the fact that Hongbin doesn’t really know, either.

 

**_21st December 1923_ **   
**_Chicago, Illinois_ **

If Hongbin finds himself back at that same jazz bar the next Friday night he tells himself it’s because of the quality of the music and nothing at all to do with Taekwoon. It certainly has nothing to do with how Taekwoon’s eyes have been popping into his head at the most inopportune times (mostly when he was trying to show off a car for a prospective customer) or how he laid awake at night thinking of Taekwoon’s hands on the piano keys. And if he doesn’t ask Sanghyuk and Jaehwan to accompany him, it’s only because he feels like being lonely. These are all the half-truths he tells himself, not really believing them in the first place but putting his faith in them because the longer he keeps denying the truth the better it is for everyone involved.

He’s at the bar, trying to get the bartender’s attention—the place is absolutely swamped with people, so much so that it’s actually making him a little bit anxious—when he feels a hand on his back, between his shoulder blades. It’s not a caress, but it’s not a slap, either; when he turns Taekwoon is standing there, a small smile on his face.

“You’re back,” he says, and Hongbin melts. Was Taekwoon expecting him? “Let me buy you a drink.”

“Not playing tonight?” he asks, taking the opportunity given to lean into Taekwoon as he sidles up to the bar, relishing the way his heart starts to race.

Taekwoon raises an eyebrow. “Sadly I am. I’ll be here until dawn.” He looks back at Hongbin and smiles, and Hongbin can’t help but smile back—it’s just a flash of teeth, of scrunched eyes, but it’s sweet, and he holds it close to his chest like Taekwoon’s given him something precious. “At least I’ve got good company.”

“Misery does love company,” Hongbin agrees, nearly sighing with relief as the bartender places two glasses of gin on the counter in front of them.

He clinks his glass with Taekwoon and resists the urge to down it in one go, instead taking a sip—and is pleasantly surprised. This is top-shelf stuff, not at all like what he bought for Taekwoon last week, rivalled only by what Sanghyuk always seems to have on him. To say he’s impressed would be an understatement, so to show his appreciation he raises his glass at Taekwoon and takes another sip. “This is mighty good stuff.”

His accent twangs on the _mighty_ and he winces even though he knows Taekwoon already knows—but it’s too late, because Taekwoon catches the wince and his eyes widen. “You know so much about me,” he says, gaze dark over the rim of his glass. “Where I’m from, what I do. I don’t know anything about you.”

“I don’t have the slightest idea where you’re from, actually.”

At this, Taekwoon grins. “Chicago born and raised. Checkmate.”

Hongbin sighs and pillows his cheek on his hand, trying not to look petulant and failing. “I’m from Georgia,” he says, and then when Taekwoon waves a hand for him to continue he sighs once more. “Camilla, Georgia. Tiny little town in the middle of nowhere. And I’m a Cadillac salesman.”

Taekwoon seems to digest this information, but his face has closed up. Hongbin can’t get a read on him at all. “So did you move to the city to catch your big break?”

He laughs at this, more out of surprise than anything else—because what is he good at, apart from smiling and disappointing his parents and convincing people to buy things? “Lord no. I moved… to see the sights, I suppose.”

He moved to get out from underneath his father’s tyrannical thumb, to escape from having to sit in a church and listen to his pastor drone on and on about the evils of drink and jazz and the big city. He moved to get away from his family’s farm, because if there’s one thing he’s learnt about life so far, it’s that he loathes taking care of chickens. He moved to get away from the horrible feeling that something was _wrong_ , that he wasn’t supposed to be like this; he ran, fleeing all he knew, and he never wants to go back.

But ‘seeing the sights’ is an easy answer to a difficult question, and he doesn’t want to overload Taekwoon with details that don’t matter anyway.

“Huh,” Taekwoon says, swirling his gin around in his glass.

He seems to be waiting for something, although for what, Hongbin can’t tell, so he just takes the conversational reins and leans in a little closer. “And you? How’d you end up playing piano?”

“I’m an heir,” Taekwoon replies immediately, with a wicked grin that indicates he’s joking. Or he _should_ be. But as he speaks, Hongbin senses a sincerity about his words. “My parents hate that I do it, keep saying I should get a real job, but I just keep at it. I like it. It’s fun. And there’s always something going on around here.”

The lightness of his tone belies the way he’s suddenly fingering the cross around his neck, and Hongbin eyes it warily. He’s had enough religion forced on him to last a lifetime, and while he wouldn’t ordinarily peg Taekwoon for the religious type—they’re in a speakeasy, after all, drinking illegal liquor and almost certainly breaking a handful of laws—the vigour with which he clings to the cross, enough to wear it around his neck, has him doubting.

“You ever been raided?” he asks to change the subject, and it has the intended effect because Taekwoon’s hand falls away from his cross and he brightens visibly.

“Yeah, but not while I was working, thank God.” He shudders. “They took the bar staff in for questioning, but I think someone slipped the coppers some cash under the table, because nothing came of it.”

If he looks like he’s hanging on to Taekwoon’s every word, it’s probably because he is—nothing like this ever happened in Camilla, that’s for sure. He then realises that Taekwoon’s finished speaking and they’re just staring at each other, and looks away, but not before he sees Taekwoon’s eyes flick down to hover on his lips for a fraction of a second.

He shivers, slow and delicious.

“I—” he starts, right as someone calls Taekwoon’s name over his shoulder.

“Coming!” Taekwoon hollers back, before looking at Hongbin and wincing. “Sorry. Gotta go. Are you gonna stay and watch the show?”

Hongbin shakes his head, pushing his glass around the bar with a finger. “I just came to see you, actually.”

Well, he hadn’t meant to say that, even though it’s exactly what he was thinking, but he’s sorta glad he did, because Taekwoon blushes so damn pretty under the low lights that Hongbin’s toes curl. Oh, he’s beautiful, far too beautiful to be real, and it’s all Hongbin can do to stare as Taekwoon tosses back his gin in one mouthful and swallows, flustered. “Well,” he says as he turns to regard Hongbin, but his eyes are bright and he’s still flushed pink. “Come and see me again sometime.”

“I will,” Hongbin murmurs as he turns to head back to his piano. “Merry Christmas, Taekwoon.”

“Merry Christmas!” Taekwoon calls back over his shoulder—and winks.

 

**_31st December 1923_ **   
**_Chicago, Illinois_ **

“There’s lots of good places we can ring in the new year at, you know,” Sanghyuk complains loudly from behind Hongbin. “We don’t have to go to Roxie’s.”

Hongbin just rolls his eyes as he turns around to walk backward, waving his flask in the air. “If you two want to go somewhere else, I don’t care—”

“Nooo!” Sanghyuk shrieks, and falls over himself to grab onto Hongbin, throwing a punch at his shoulder that doesn’t hurt in the slightest. “Fine, if you want to go, we’ll go.”

They’re all drunk already, but there’s cause for it, after all; it’s Hongbin’s third year in this godforsaken city, and the fact that he’s survived this long is certainly reason enough to be drunk stumbling through the streets. It’s not like anyone cares, anyway. They’re just three other faces in the crowd. It’s nice to have the companionship, since the last new years he had was spent miserable and alone in his own apartment; the friendship is nice, and he grins widely at Jaehwan and Sanghyuk as they all stagger along, giddy with excitement.

The line to get into the bar is long, and by the time they’re finally inside and shrugging out of their coats and hats and gloves it’s nearly midnight. Hongbin pays no attention to the others and instead heads straight the bar, his drunk brain focused on one thing and one thing only: Taekwoon.

Drinks in hand, he weaves his way through the crowd towards the band, a smile breaking out the moment he lays eyes on Taekwoon, seated at the piano with a cigarette between his lips. He’s wearing a navy blue waistcoat, his suit jacket and hat slung on the seat next to him, and he’s undone the top buttons of his shirt, revealing an expanse of smooth pale skin beneath his cross that Hongbin finds he suddenly wants to touch. When he looks up and spots Hongbin he starts grinning and, much to Hongbin’s surprise, waves him over and pats the seat on the piano next to him; Hongbin obeys, putting both drinks on the top of the piano and sitting on his hands lest he actually does touch Taekwoon.

But this is another form of torture, because now Taekwoon’s pressed right up against him, and he has to reach over him to get at the high notes; he finds he can’t stop staring at Taekwoon’s fingers dancing gaily across the keys, so long and slender and fine and everything he wants but never knew he needed, and—good Lord, he’s drunk.

“For you,” he mumbles, and reaches for one of the glasses of gin, going to hand it to Taekwoon before realising he’s still playing. “Ah, shit.”

But Taekwoon—whose eyes are bright; this almost certainly isn’t his first drink of the night either—just grins wickedly and flicks his hair out of his eyes. “Just pour it down my throat.”

“Um,” Hongbin says, because, well, he’s not sure he’s sober enough for the hand-eye coordination required for such a maneuver, but Taekwoon’s still playing and still grinning at him, so he supposes he has no choice. “Okay.”

The first thing he does is take the cigarette out from between Taekwoon’s lips and put it between his fingers, which is a mistake because he’s already thrown off. But then Taekwoon—still playing the damn piano—tips his head back and opens his mouth, and the sight of that—Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Hongbin’s not going to survive this. He does as he’s told, though, and raises the glass and tips the gin into Taekwoon’s mouth, managing to get most of it. An errant drop runs down his chin, heading for his neck, and before Hongbin can stop himself he swipes at it with his finger and sticks that finger in his mouth, as he would do if he’d just spilled some on himself. He only realises his mistake when Taekwoon turns to look at him, mouth still closed around the gin, and finds Hongbin sucking on his own finger, eyes wide and, he’s sure, glassy.

But Taekwoon doesn’t flinch away, like Hongbin was fearing. Instead he gasps—he actually gasps so loudly Hongbin hears it over the music—and his eyes go wide as saucers and he hits a bum note on the piano and swears, loudly, which only endears him to Hongbin more. He tilts his head back to the piano to concentrate on playing, but the tips of his ears are red and his chest is heaving like he’s just run a race.

 _Beautiful_ , Hongbin thinks, staring at him for a moment more before sticking Taekwoon’s cigarette in his mouth and sucking on it so hard he nearly inhales it entirely. _Fucking beautiful._

“Happy new year,” he says once Taekwoon finishes playing with a flourish, smiling at the sound of the applause around them.

Now that he’s not playing, Taekwoon could scoot away if he wanted to. But he remains exactly where he is, his thigh pressed up against Hongbin’s own, the warmth of his body flowing into Hongbin, delicious and illicit and everything he’s been running from but always seems to come back to. “It’s not even midnight yet,” he murmurs, and then reaches and plucks his now nearly-spent cigarette from between Hongbin’s lips, putting him alarmingly close. “But happy new year regardless.”

Being this close is dangerous. The space between them seems like nothing at all as the world falls away from around them; Hongbin feels like his veins and synapses have turned to electricity, like he’s sparking up from the inside out and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it but hang on for the ride. He’s never felt like this before, and he knows, he knows it’s wrong, knows he shouldn’t—but—

“Hongbin!”

Sanghyuk’s voice shocks him, and he rears backwards, putting space between them so he can catch his breath. He refuses to look at Taekwoon, refuses to let him see the way he’s come so entirely undone, and at what? Just his close proximity? He ought to be ashamed of himself. “Coming!” he calls back instead, and reaches for his untouched gin to take a long swig of it. “I’ll see you around, ‘kay?” he says to Taekwoon once he’s gathered his wits about him enough to not come off as a complete lush.

“Sure,” Taekwoon replies quietly, the guardedness back on his face again.

It hurts to see, but there’s nothing Hongbin can do about it.

 

**_17th January 1924_ **   
**_Chicago, Illinois_ **

Hongbin spends the fortnight after new years in a miserable haze of booze and cigarette smoke, drowning his sorrows the only way the city has taught him how. He doesn’t set foot in church, although he considers it for a few hours before dismissing it entirely; he doesn’t believe anymore, and any comfort gleaned from a visit would be from the familiarity of stifling guilt.

And guilt is what he feels, although he supposes it morphs into something more akin to apathy in the second week. He’s well-aware that he’s attracted to Taekwoon. There’s no point denying it, not when his close proximity had such a visceral effect on Hongbin’s nerves, had set him alight from the inside out. The question is if he’ll ever get up the courage to do something about it, knowing that it’s wrong and knowing that Taekwoon might not even feel the same way—just how religious is he, anyway? He didn’t mention it once in their conversations, but the topic didn’t exactly come up, and Hongbin never asked.

Instead of dwelling on that, though, one Thursday night he grabs the keys to one of the demonstrator models as he’s leaving work—a beautiful brand-new Type V-63 that he’s had the privilege of driving a few times—and pockets them before slipping inside and driving downtown, heading for Roxie’s.

It’s pretty early still, only around eleven, and so when he pulls up the curb he shuts the engine off and lights up a cigarette, smoking lazily with the windows rolled down until eleven thirty when Taekwoon exits, jamming his hat low on his head and shoving his hands in his pockets. Hongbin, heart in his throat, opens the door and stands up. “Taekwoon,” he calls, and waves a hand half-heartedly in an attempt to not appear too eager. “Hey.”

Even the sight of him has his heart racing, but Taekwoon just raises an eyebrow as he wanders over. “Nice ride,” he says, trailing a hand over the hood of the car. “Did you steal her?”

“Sort of. I stole the keys from work. I guess ‘borrowed’ is the word to use, since I plan to give them back.” He grins, hoping he’s coming off charming and knowing he’s just probably acting the fool as per usual. “Which means that, hypothetically, what I’m doing is joyriding.”

“Joyriding, huh? That’s a crime.” Taekwoon folds his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes, but he’s hiding a smile, Hongbin can see. “Seems you’re just a two-bit common criminal, Hongbin.”

“Seems so,” Hongbin replies very seriously. “But every two-bit common criminal needs a partner in crime… so, hop in.”

Taekwoon grins and does as he’s told, slamming the door closed behind him so enthusiastically the entire car rocks on its wheels. “Do you even know how to drive this thing?” he asks, the skepticism in his voice pointed as he watches Hongbin fumble to start it.

“Do _you?_ ” Hongbin shoots back as the car rumbles into life, and after fiddling with the clutch for a few more seconds they’re finally off.

“No, but it’s not my _job_ ,” Taekwoon points out, and winces as the gears crunch. “Jeez, Hongbin, let her be.”

But Hongbin doesn’t let her be. He doesn’t know what the speed limit is in this part of town, and doesn’t much care, either; he puts his foot down as hard as he can given the slush on the roads, delighting in making Taekwoon hold onto the door so hard his knuckles go white. At one point he nearly takes the car up on two wheels as they go around a corner, and it’s only when Taekwoon starts hollering that he slows down, but he’s laughing so hard his stomach hurts.

“Joyriding’s fun,” Taekwoon gasps out around giggles as they sit at a red traffic light. There’s no one else in the intersection, but Hongbin figures he needs to let the engine cool off for a few moments. “I wish I knew how to drive.”

Feeling emboldened by the adrenaline flowing through his body, Hongbin reaches across for Taekwoon’s hand, nearly dropping it when just that touch alone makes his nerve endings flare into life. He wraps Taekwoon’s hand around the stick and presses gently down on it for a moment, squeezing his fingers, before placing his hands back on the wheel and looking straight ahead. “When I tell you, push the stick all the way to the left and up,” he murmurs. His voice sounds too loud even to his own ears, and he can barely concentrate when the light turns green—being in such a confined space with Taekwoon, without anyone else there to distract them, is proving lethal for him. He’s so turned on he can’t even _think_. But somehow he manages to depress the clutch and murmur, “Now.”

Taekwoon does as he’s told and once the car is in gear Hongbin sets off, grinning at Taekwoon as they drive through the night. “See? Now you know how to drive!”

“I’m sure that’ll come in handy,” he replies dryly, and then brightens. “Oh, hey, we’re near my place.”

Hongbin’s eyebrows nearly shoot into his hairline. They’ve driven to the upmarket part of town, the part of town he’d never be caught dead in since he doesn’t dress and act rich—mainly because he’s not—and also because he’s never had any reason to go. Huge mansions line the street, dripping with opulence that’s no doubt built off the back of corruption, something that’s so hard to escape in this city. “Really?” he asks, and can’t help the skepticism that creeps into his voice.

It’s not that he doesn’t believe Taekwoon, but he thought he’d been joking about being a heir. A rich man, certainly; his suits are bespoke even though they’re a little worn-out, and the shoes he always wears are worth more than Hongbin’s paycheck for an entire month. But an heir?

“Take a left down here,” Taekwoon murmurs, and Hongbin does as asked. “And a right here. It’s the next one… Yeah, this one.”

He pulls into a long driveway, his eyes widening as the house opens up in front of him. It’s massive; the only other time he’s seen a house like this is when they visited an old plantation as part of a school field trip years ago. This is modern and terrifyingly huge, and he’s completely lost for words as he stops the car in front of the steps leading up to the front door. Strangely, it makes him think of his family’s little farmhouse back home; even more strangely it makes him miss it.

“Wow,” he murmurs for lack of anything better to say, peering out the window. “Nice house.”

Taekwoon just snorts and slumps down in his seat but makes no move to leave. “It’s alright,” he mumbles, drawing patterns in the condensation on the window with a finger. “It’d be better without the tyranny of my father, but what can you do?” At this he glances over his shoulder at Hongbin. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. My father was the same.”

At this, Taekwoon snorts. “Maybe I should move to Georgia.”

“You wouldn’t last two seconds in Georgia.”

“Yeah? What’s so scary about the south?” When Taekwoon turns to see the expression on Hongbin’s face—it must be something real frightening, borne of misguided loyalty to his home—he backs down, laughing. “Alright, alright. I’m a city-slicker. And I’m stuck here for the rest of my life.”

Hongbin thinks about the city they’ve just driven through, of the people wandering about, laughing and dancing, about the jazz that runs through the city’s veins, about the corruption that makes up its skeleton, and shrugs. “There’s worse places to be stuck in, trust me. But why don’t you… I don’t know… leave? Play the piano in a different town every night?”

“I’ve always wanted to,” Taekwoon whispers, drawing his legs up to hug them close to his chest. Hongbin doesn’t even care that his fancy shoes are probably scuffing the leather of the seat. “To travel, to get away from here. But I… I can’t. My parents have grand plans for me. They allow me my eccentricities, like the piano… but I always have to answer to them.”

“I’m sorry.” And he means it, he does; he can’t imagine what his own father would be like if they were rich. He’d probably be still in Georgia, still under his rule, unable to escape. “I know what that’s like. But, hey, if I managed to escape, maybe you can too one day.” At this he reaches across and elbows Taekwoon, trying to cheer him up. “Better learn how to drive first, though.”

“Oh, yeah? You gonna teach me?” Taekwoon replies, smiling, the maudlin expression gone, and Hongbin sways closer without even meaning to.

“Sure. And then we can run. Go on the road, sell moonshine to get by.” He realises, as soon as he says it, that this proposition—even as a joke—is absurdly intimate for someone that he doesn’t really know all that well, and plays it off with a goofy smile and by knocking Taekwoon’s hat off his head playfully. “Escape the authorities at every turn. Hell, we might even make it south of the Mason-Dixon line before they catch up to us.”

Taekwoon laughs, head tossed back and mouth open wide, and all Hongbin can do is watch. “God, Hongbin, you make it sound like a picture. If only.”

“Yeah,” Hongbin sighs, settling back in the seat of the borrowed car and folding his hands in his lap. “If only.”

Running away to Chicago is the boldest thing he’s ever done, but it’s left him with a future in tatters and no real knowledge gleaned of who he is. Staying in Camilla meant he could see his life mapped out in front of him: marriage to a girl who would probably be sweet enough but would be awfully confused why her husband didn’t seem interested in fulfilling his marriage duties beyond what was required of him as the absolute bare minimum, followed by them moving onto the family farm once his father passed, where he’d live out the rest of his days becoming distinctly more miserable every day, letting the land wear him down until there was nothing left. Now that he’s here he has no idea what he wants to do with himself. Drowning himself in gin and whiskey and jazz and smokes is enough for now—but in the future?

Taekwoon?

He banishes that thought as soon as it enters his head, so violently he looks out the window, his body recoiling from the very possibility. No. It’s impossible. Not for them. Just because he’s let his heart run away with his head doesn’t mean he can start dreaming about stupid ideas that will never, ever happen, not in this world, not in this lifetime; he may be a fool, but he’s not a fool about to break his own heart.

“Well,” Taekwoon says into the silence, stretching so his joints pop. “I suppose I better get inside before Father comes down and asks what the hell is going on in here.” He gestures at the fogged-up windows with a raised eyebrow. “Although at this point if he found me fooling around in a car with a girl he’d probably jump for joy.”

He seems to realise he’s said too much—Hongbin’s heart leaps, _are you like me too?_ —and coughs awkwardly, reaching for his cigarettes and tapping one out as if to keep his hands busy. “Thanks for the ride, Hongbin. I’ll see you around. Come to the bar soon, okay?”

“Okay,” Hongbin murmurs through stiff lips and a tongue that barely wants to move. He makes himself reach out and clap Taekwoon on the shoulder anyway, although he misses and his hand falls on the back of Taekwoon’s neck. The touch startles them both, because they freeze for a moment; Hongbin resists the stupid, stupid urge to drag Taekwoon into a kiss, and immediately hates himself for even thinking so. “See you soon,” he says lamely, letting his hand fall back to his lap.

He spends the entire drive home with a head overflowing with thoughts that he can’t make head or tail of. The only one that he recognises—the only one that crops up, over and over again—is _I wish he was my future_ , and no matter how many times he pushes it away, it keeps coming back to haunt him.

 

**_1st February 1924_ **   
**_Chicago, Illinois_ **

It’s Taekwoon who breaks the kiss first, but he doesn’t move very far; they stand there in the snow with their arms and legs intertwined and when Taekwoon breathes out Hongbin breathes him in, determined not to let this moment slip through his fingers because he knows he’ll never be able to forget this.

“I’m cold,” he whispers, which is the last thing Hongbin was expecting him to say—and then he’s pulling back to fold at the waist and wheeze, at which Taekwoon looks understandably confused since it wasn’t a very funny thing to say.

“Is that all?” he gets out, looking up at Taekwoon with an arm around his middle. “I thought you were going to say that you—that you regretted this, or somethin’. That you didn’t wanna see me again.”

Taekwoon crouches down next to him and pushes Hongbin’s hat back so he can see his face better, and the expression on his face is one that Hongbin’s ever only seen before on people in church back home when they received the Lord: rapture, pure and overwhelming. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the first moment I saw you,” Taekwoon says, and then he smiles and Hongbin feels like his blood turns to liquid gold. “Just took me a while to get up the courage, is all.”

“Let’s get out of here,” he replies, since one or both of them are going to freeze to death up here and that’s possibly the least erotic thing that could ever happen. “Do you wanna go back to mine? It’s not far.”

The rapture in Taekwoon’s eyes turns to heat, and he grabs Hongbin by the elbow and hauls him upright. “Yeah,” he says, and then swoops in to kiss Hongbin again, smiling. “Let’s go.”

Hongbin doesn’t know how they make it back to his place unscathed; the tension brimming between them is almost overwhelming in its intensity, made worse by the fact that they can’t touch in public, or not in the way they want to, at least. They speedwalk the entire way with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders, and the heat of Taekwoon’s body against his own is nearly too much to bear. He feels like he might be going mad. He then realises that he doesn’t much care.

They don’t even make it into Hongbin’s apartment, because as they’re going up the stairs Taekwoon pushes him against the wall and kisses him long and hard until they’re both panting—then they’re scrambling up the stairs, Taekwoon whining while Hongbin fiddles with the keys, spilling inside and not knowing what to do with themselves. Taekwoon hangs his hat and scarf on Hongbin’s hatstand, the movement so quietly domestic that it makes Hongbin’s breath catch in his throat; he can barely stand to see it, and instead he grabs Taekwoon by the tie to drag him into another heated kiss, wanting to _feel_.

“I’ve, um, I’ve never done this before,” Taekwoon confesses as he pushes Hongbin’s coat off his shoulders where it falls to a puddle at his feet.

Hongbin raises an eyebrow. “Neither have I. Do you want to stop?”

It’s a half-truth, because he’s had clumsy fumbles in back seats of cars and buggies with girls from back home, but that was nothing more than fulfilment of a physical urge; he never felt whole afterwards. There was always something missing. But he’s never done this with a man before, and more importantly, he’s never done this with someone who matters.

“Lord, no,” Taekwoon breathes, and kisses Hongbin again. “I just—I don’t know how it works.”

“And you think I do?” Hongbin snorts as he peels Taekwoon’s jacket off, leaving him in just his waistcoat. He starts working on the buttons of that, batting away Taekwoon’s attempts to do the same on him. “We’ll just… do what feels good.”

“Does this feel good?” Taekwoon murmurs right as Hongbin undoes his waistcoat, and then trails a hand down Hongbin’s belly to cup his cock, stroking it gently through his trousers—and Hongbin nearly leaps a foot in the air.

“Shit,” he chokes out, letting his eyes flutter shut, holding onto Taekwoon’s waist just to stay upright. “Yeah, it does.”

He doesn’t let Taekwoon go any further, as much as he wants to. Instead he takes a step closer to knock Taekwoon’s hand away, removing Taekwoon’s waistcoat so he’s just in his tie and shirt and suspenders and trousers, looking far more attractive than he really has any right to. He’s slimmer than Hongbin thought he was, and the skin that’s revealed when he undoes Taekwoon’s tie and starts unbuttoning his shirt is pale and smooth and he can finally do this, so he leans in and presses a biting, open-mouthed kiss there, just beneath his collarbone, relishing in making Taekwoon moan.

“Let me—”

Hongbin cuts him off with a raised eyebrow as he undoes Taekwoon’s shirt all the way, slipping his suspenders off his shoulders. The shirt joins the rest of his clothes on the floor, and Hongbin takes a moment to look—Taekwoon’s rounded in on himself, almost like he’s self-conscious, but he meets Hongbin’s gaze with a heated, almost challenging look in his eyes, and it just serves to make him all the more beautiful.

“Get on the bed,” he whispers, half expecting Taekwoon to protest. But he does what he’s told, shuffling over the pile of clothes to flop onto Hongbin’s bed face-first before rolling over and sitting up against the headboard.

He learnt this trick from one of the girls back home, and when she did this to him it was, up until now, the most arousing thing he’s ever experienced—and that was saying a lot when he considered himself thoroughly disinterested in women. He doesn’t do anything special beyond taking his time—undoing his tie first before sliding it off, then removing his jacket, unbuttoning his waistcoat slowly—but by the way Taekwoon’s gaze darkens, he can tell the effect it’s having on him.

“Don’t,” he whispers as Taekwoon moves to touch himself, a command underscored with warm affection, leaving it clear that if Taekwoon _really_ wants to touch himself he isn’t gonna protest. But instead his hand flutters on his belly and he swallows and breathes in hard, and Hongbin knows that they’re both on fire from the inside-out.

When he’s fully naked, he takes a moment to just stand there. Taekwoon looks him up and down, just like he did the first time they met, but if he thought that stare was heated this is practically blazing. The arousal in the air is so thick he can practically taste it, and because he doesn’t know how long he’s going to last like this—he’s already coming undone, just at the weight of Taekwoon’s gaze—he makes his way onto the bed, crawling up the length of Taekwoon’s body to kiss him once more. The slide of lips and tongue makes his eyes flutter shut, and when Taekwoon travels down his cheek and chin to bite him on the neck he stiffens and cries out, pleasure sharpening into something pointed.

Taekwoon takes him by the shoulders and pushes him gently onto his back, and before Hongbin can ask, he leans down to take Hongbin’s nipple in his mouth, his tongue circling around it, teeth just lightly grazing his skin and—oh, he gets it, and lets his head fall back to the pillow, resisting the urge to hiss. “Please,” he begs, not above begging, not when he’s this desperate. “Taekwoon, please—”

Taekwoon _does_ , sliding down the bed to take Hongbin’s cock in his mouth, wrapping one hand around it for good measure—and Hongbin nearly bucks off the damn bed, eyes rolling back in his skull. “Jesus Christ, Taekwoon, I’m gonna—just—”

But Taekwoon’s other hand comes up to clap over his mouth and so he suffers in muffled silence, the pleasure bouncing and reverbing though his body as Taekwoon begins sucking him off, slowly and tentative at first but quickly becoming more bold. Hongbin’s teetering on the edge of coming, trying to hold himself back to make this last, when Taekwoon takes his hand away and instinctively he looks down—

And the sight of Taekwoon, blinking so sweetly up at him with his lips wrapped innocuously around Hongbin’s cock, proves to be too much.

“Taekwoon, I’m gonna come,” he gasps, trying to warn him desperately. “Taekwoon—fuckin’ hell—”

To his surprise Taekwoon doesn’t move and doesn’t relent, just keeps sucking him off through his orgasm—which hits him like a freight train, leaving him wordless and breathless and only the barest knowledge of who and where he is—and when he finally pulls away and sticks out his tongue to show off Hongbin nearly comes all over again at the sight of that, so filthy and lewd but so fucking erotic he feels like his blood is boiling. He doesn’t even get the chance to ask if Taekwoon wants to go to the bathroom to spit it out because he shuts his mouth and swallows it all, a satisfied expression on his face the likes of which Hongbin’s never seen before. “Good?” he asks innocently, and all Hongbin can do is groan and let his head fall back on the pillow.

“Yeah,” he says, not trusting himself to say any more. “Good.”

But Taekwoon’s not quite finished, and faintly Hongbin realises that he hasn’t come; he crawls back up the length of Hongbin’s body to bite at his neck again, grinding his hips into Hongbin, his need evident by the way his cock is hard against Hongbin’s thigh. “Hongbin,” he whines, the sweetest sound in the world. “I’m—I wanna—”

“Yeah,” he says again, and forces himself upright. “You wanna come, don’t you?”

If Taekwoon whining is the sweetest sound in the world, the sweetest sight in the world is surely the way he blushes, turning red underneath Hongbin’s hand. “Please,” he asks, and just with that one word Hongbin feels blood rushing south. If he’s not hard again he will be shortly.

“Lie on your back.” When Taekwoon does, Hongbin hovers above him, feeling suddenly unsure. “If you want me to, to stop or something, just tell me, okay? We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Taekwoon catches his wrist and brings his hand to his lips, pressing a kiss in the centre of Hongbin’s palm and closing his fingers over it like it’s something precious. “I want you,” he says, and the rawness of his confession leaves Hongbin bereft.

So he hooks his fingers under the waistband of Taekwoon’s trousers and tugs them off, along with his underwear, and when he’s naked underneath him he takes a moment to just… look. Taekwoon’s legs are long and slender, his skin unmarred and smooth, and the fact that it’s all his for the taking leaves his head spinning. He feels like he doesn’t even know where to begin. How can someone this beautiful _exist?_ Moreover, how can someone this beautiful be interested in _him?_ He splays both hands on Taekwoon’s chest, relishing at the way he hisses just from that touch; he’s beyond sensitive, and it’s exhilarating to see.

“Hongbin,” Taekwoon says, eyes screwed shut as Hongbin trails slow, lazy circles on the skin of his chest, his stomach, not drifting lower. “Please, just, please—I want—”

“I know what you want.” As he says this, he lets his hands go lower, brushing through the top of his pubic hair. “But this is more fun, is it not?”

Taekwoon shudders underneath him. “Fuck, Hongbin.”

“Yes,” Hongbin replies agreeably, and then shifts down to wrap his hand around Taekwoon’s cock. “I believe that’s what we’re doing.”

His words are cut off by the way Taekwoon moans just from that touch, loudly and unapologetically before he claps a hand over his mouth and whines into that. He’s writhing underneath Hongbin’s touch as he strokes Taekwoon’s cock slowly, thumb trailing over the sensitive spot under the head, and it’s evident that he’s not going to last long.

In fact, he doesn’t even last long enough for Hongbin to return the favour. He only gets as far as kneeling down before the feeling of his breath on Taekwoon’s cock proves too much; he comes with a shout, his hands twisted the sheets, hips undulating upwards as he comes all on himself.

“Are you okay?” Hongbin asks a moment later when Taekwoon opens his eyes.

Taekwoon smiles sleepily, but his smile turns to an expression of shock and lust when Hongbin bends down to lap at the come on his stomach. “Jesus, Hongbin—yeah, I am.”

When Hongbin leans up and kisses him, letting Taekwoon taste himself, and feels Taekwoon’s arms come around him and hold him close… Well, he feels like he’s found the meaning of happiness, right then and there, and he vows to himself that nothing will ever come between them.

He won’t let it.

 

**_14th February 1924_ **   
**_Chicago, Illinois_ **

At first Hongbin thinks the tapping at the window is a bird. He’s got his head buried in paperwork—thanks to Taekwoon, he’s been neglecting it a lot recently, and so he’d made himself sit down and work through a huge stack tonight—and his pen in his mouth, and he only just hears it over the sound of the record playing in the background, but he doesn’t think much of it. It’s not until it happens again, and then again, that he realises it’s not a bird at all, and huffs—it’s probably Sanghyuk and Jaehwan, whining about being ignored again (Hongbin only feels slightly guilty for barely being around anymore, but between work and Taekwoon, he just doesn’t have the time). But when he gets up and opens the window with a sigh, ready to holler at them to leave him in peace, it’s Taekwoon standing in the street with a bouquet of flowers nestled in the crook of his arm, a handful of stones in his hand, and a grin on his face.

“I told you, I have work to do,” Hongbin calls, but he can barely conceal his own smile. “And you’re distracting.”

Taekwoon throws another stone, hitting Hongbin squarely between the eyes. “I promise I won’t be distracting. I’ll sit in the corner quietly. You won’t even notice me.”

“Ow! That hurt like hell!” Hongbin reaches for the first thing on his desk, which turns out to be an eraser, and flings it at Taekwoon, but the bastard dodges it easily. “Fine. Come up.”

Taekwoon greets him at the door with a kiss that leaves them both breathless, but when he goes to speak Hongbin shakes his head and presses a finger to his lips. “You said you were just gonna sit in the corner quietly.”

It’s torture, Hongbin knows, because as he’s discovered in the past two weeks Taekwoon is unerringly sensitive, liable to get turned on just at the brush of lips or a gentle caress of hands; it gives Hongbin a great deal of power that he often abuses because Taekwoon loves it so. He goes to press into Hongbin again, but he steps back, pointing at the bed. “And to think I got you flowers,” Taekwoon grumbles, and then fumbles in his pocket and pulls out an envelope. “And a card.”

Hongbin takes the flowers and the card as Taekwoon stalks over to the bed and folds himself on it sulkily, pouting. It’s cute, but Hongbin won’t let himself get sucked in; just as he knows how to turn Taekwoon on, Taekwoon knows all the ways to distract him. Once last week he’d even turned up at Hongbin’s work and made a great show of pretending to be interested in buying a Cadillac. Hongbin’d just had to sit behind the desk and simmer as one of the other salesmen took him around the showroom, watching as Taekwoon kept bending over and shooting glances back over his shoulder at Hongbin, batting his eyelashes and pretending to be innocent (Hongbin had got the last laugh, though, because that same night he’d pinned Taekwoon up against the side of one of the demonstrators and gone down on him until he was writhing and begging to come). It was infuriating and erotic, and he’s doing the same thing now, leaning back on the bed so Hongbin can see just how turned on he is.

“That’s not gonna work,” he says nonchalantly, turning back to his desk to place the flowers and card down.

It’s a beautiful bunch of red roses, and he’d be lying if this didn’t set his heart to racing. He’s never had a sweetheart before, but Jaehwan’s girl likes to give him flowers on occasion, and he’d always felt weirdly jealous when he’d go around to Jaehwan’s apartment and see a vase full of red roses or chrysanthemums. Now that he has a bunch of his own he doesn’t quite know what to do with them except stare at them and rub a petal between thumb and forefinger, feeling how velvety smooth it is.

“Yeah?” Taekwoon purrs, and then he’s getting up off the bed to place his hands on Hongbin’s shoulders, thumbs kneading in gentle circles. “Open the card.”

Hongbin does, sliding his thumb under the flap of the red envelope and popping it open. The card inside isn’t particularly valentine-themed, at least at first glance. It depicts the Chicago skyline covered in snow, and in the bottom-right corner, Taekwoon’s drawn a little picture of a peach next to a picture of a piano. “I assume I’m the peach,” Hongbin says dryly, which earns him a gentle slap to the back of the neck. “For what it’s worth, my parents don’t even grow peaches.”

“It’s _symbolic_ ,” Taekwoon replies, and Hongbin wants to bury his head in his hands and laugh because this, this is a typical lover’s spat that he’s heard much about but never had before, and he loves it.

He opens the card and reads the message scrawled in swooping, elegant handwriting:

_Dearest Hongbin,_

_I know it has only been two weeks, but scarcely a moment passes me by where you are not on my mind. You consume my days and my nights, and I hope with all my heart that these flowers are just the first of many I give you._

_Yours,_   
_Jung Taekwoon._

The sincerity of the message blows him away, and for a moment it’s all he can do to sit there and hold the card in his hands and try and stem the trembling of his hands. In the past two weeks they haven’t spoken about the future at all, not once, mainly because Hongbin doesn’t have one and the one Taekwoon has is planned out for him by his parents, and by being with Hongbin he’s almost certainly rebelling in one way or another. But this—his spirit soars with hope, because what is this if not a promise? What is this if not evidence his feelings are reciprocated in kind?

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and tilts his head back to look at Taekwoon. “I’ve got something for you, too. No flowers though.”

“It’s fine,” Taekwoon says, and Hongbin pulls away and opens his desk drawer, reaching for the card and small box of chocolates he’d stashed there earlier. He hadn’t known whether it was appropriate to give them or not, hadn’t known if it would unsettle Taekwoon, but considering the flowers on his desk he just hands them over.

Taekwoon takes them and sits back on the bed, ripping into the envelope eagerly and opening the card. To Hongbin’s surprise, he starts reading it aloud, his melodic voice making Hongbin’s inadequate words sound almost poetic.

“ _Taekwoon,_

_I’m sure glad I walked into Roxie’s that night. You mean so much to me. More than you could ever know._

_It’s us against the world, sweetheart._

_Lee Hongbin._ ”

For a moment they just sit in silence. Hongbin isn’t ashamed to admit that he’s blushing; spoken aloud like that his words take on more meaning than they had when he’d written them. Not that he minds, especially in the wake of Taekwoon’s card to him. But sitting there like that, staring at each other, Hongbin feels something shift, some piece of his heart give way; it exhilarates and terrifies him at the same time, because he knows he’s well on his way to falling in love with Taekwoon.

But he doesn’t want to think about that right now. Abandoning the paperwork—the moment he invited Taekwoon inside he knew it was a lost cause anyway—he sits on the bed next to Taekwoon and reaches up to cup his cheek, smiling when Taekwoon’s eyes flutter shut and his breath hitches in his chest. “Thank you,” he murmurs again, and he’s not just thanking Taekwoon for the flowers and for the card. It’s for coming into his life in the first place, for making a city that at times seemed so unfamiliar feel like a home once and for all. “I just—thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Taekwoon whispers, and leans in to kiss Hongbin’s forehead. “I’ve never felt like this about anyone before.”

“Me either,” Hongbin confesses, and closes his eyes.

The jazz record plays quietly in the background, and the sounds of the city—the honking of horns and laughter of people on the street below—float in through the open window, but they stay there in their little slice of heaven, no concern for anything except each other.

 

**_5th March 1924_ **   
**_Chicago, Illinois_ **

They’ve been out drinking, which is always trying because it means they have to try extra hard to keep their hands off each other in public. It means that when they get back to Hongbin’s place Taekwoon throws him up against the wall and goes down on him with such enthusiasm he’s sure Taekwoon sucks his soul from his body; he returns the favour with just as much vigour, enjoying drawing it out and making Taekwoon sob and beg for more, twisting his body into knots.

“Fuck,” he says afterwards, still panting. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Hongbin.”

He pulls Hongbin closer, but the moonlight through the window catches the silver of his cross—he never takes it off, not even in the shower—and Hongbin suddenly can’t stand to see it. Maybe it’s because he’s drunk still, or maybe it’s because God has been on his mind lately for reasons he can’t fathom (guilt?), but he pulls away and reaches for his boxers, pulling them on and grabbing his cigarettes.

“Are you okay?”

He doesn’t answer, just lights up a cigarette and inhales shakily. It’s the booze, he knows, but his head swims and when he stalks over to the window and opens it to peer out—not at all caring about the biting cold—something in his stomach turns when he sees a couple walking hand-in-hand along the road.

“What’s wrong?”

Taekwoon’s voice is a lot closer this time, and then Hongbin feels his arms slide around his waist. He’s still naked, and doesn’t seem to care a jot that anyone could look up and see them—but Hongbin does, and scoots sideways, out of his grasp. “Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Taekwoon challenges, lighting up a cigarette of his own and puffing on it indignantly. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“You don’t know me,” Hongbin counters.

At this, something behind Taekwoon’s eyes flashes, something dangerous. “I _do_ know you,” he replies, voice as cold as the ice outside. They stand there for a moment, the smoke surrounding them, before he softens and takes a tentative step closer. “Hongbin, sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

 _So many things_ , he wants to say. There’s the fact that Jaehwan and Sanghyuk have deduced that he’s seeing someone and keep pressing him for answers he can’t give. There’s the fact that his performance at work is suffering, probably because he’s spending all his free time with Taekwoon either here or at Roxie’s or gallivanting all through the city and as such has no time to do his paperwork. There’s the fact that his stomach turns whenever he sees a pair of sweethearts in the street or dancing in the bar, mainly because he and Taekwoon can never have that—and it stings, because there’s he wants nothing more than to walk hand-in-hand with Taekwoon down the street, to say to the world _he’s mine and I’m his and that’s the way it will be forever_. Even that, he’s terrified of; it’s only been a month since Taekwoon kissed him in the snow, but he has a terrible, sinking feeling that things are so good that there’s no way they can last like this. And therein lies the problem, because he’s not sure, now, how he can live without Taekwoon; his presence eclipses everything else in the world and he feels like home in a way Hongbin can’t really describe. The thought of being without him is impossible to comprehend. He doesn’t even want to consider it.

The cross around Taekwoon’s neck glints tauntingly at him in the moonlight, representing everything they can’t have, and he turns away and takes another shaky drag of his cigarette. “I just—I don’t know. I’m just… I’m scared. Scared that you’ll get sick of me. Scared that this doesn’t mean as much to you as it does to me. I’m scared because the whole world is against us, and I don’t—I don’t know if we’re strong enough to hold it back.”

When he turns, the shock in Taekwoon’s eyes is damning, and he almost feels guilty for a second. “This isn’t a game to me,” he replies, evidently appalled. “I cannot believe you’d say that. I care about you more than I’ve ever cared about anything else.”

It’s not reassuring. He knows he’s being drunk and paranoid and stupid, but he just has this horrible sinking feeling that as good as things are now, they won’t be that way forever. “Is that enough?” he accuses, folding his arms over his chest.

“Of course it is!” Taekwoon yells, startling himself with his volume. He takes a step closer, the pleading expression on his face almost too much. “What brought this on? I’m not going anywhere, Hongbin. There’s nothing in the world that can come between you and I.”

For a long, long moment, Hongbin wars with the decision to argue—because, being realistic, there’s a million and one things that can come between them—or to leave it be. Eventually he acquiesces and sighs, shoulders rounding in as he stubs his cigarette out on the windowsill. If he doesn’t drop this, he’ll probably drive Taekwoon away long before the rest of the world can. “I just… I wish we could be like everyone else,” he confesses softly, and gestures lazily out the window. “I wish we could be open about this.”

“I do too, but just because we’re different doesn’t mean we’re… bad.” Even as he says this, Taekwoon’s got his fingers wrapped around his cross, and the pensive look in his eyes is the same one he gets after sex, sometimes; Hongbin will always ask if he wants to stop, but Taekwoon always wants to keep going. He wonders if the guilt is getting to him too. Being with Taekwoon feels right, but—even though he doesn’t believe anymore—pushing back against everything he’s ever been taught since birth has left him feeling like some part of his world has shifted.

“I don’t think what we’re doing is wrong, either.” He takes a careful step towards Taekwoon, reaches for his hand slowly. “But it’s just… hard.”

“I know,” Taekwoon says, and pulls Hongbin in for a hug. “But we have each other. As long as we have that, the rest of the world doesn’t matter.”

Hongbin breathes out shakily, feels Taekwoon breathe him in, and tries to believe.

 

**_20th March 1924_ **   
**_Chicago, Illinois_ **

They’ve been at Roxie’s all evening, which means that they’re slightly tipsy as they’re walking home—but it’s late enough that there’s no one around, so they’ve got their hats jammed low on their heads, their scarves wrapped around their faces, and their hands intertwined. Taekwoon had started doing this not long after their first fight (Hongbin looks back on it a little fondly, now; ‘Their First Fight’, like it’s something he’d be telling grandchildren one day) and Hongbin relishes it, because even though it’s not walking down the street holding hands in the middle of the day it’s _something_. Something, he’s learning, is enough.

“Here,” he giggles, passing Taekwoon his flask; Lord knows they don’t need more booze, but who cares? He doesn’t have work tomorrow and Taekwoon starts in the evening. They can spend all morning fucking and talking, which is, incidentally, his favourite way to spend a morning these days.

Taekwoon takes a swig and his eyes widen. “This is good. Better than the stuff you normally have.”

“It’s Sanghyuk’s. I stole it.”

“Of course you did.” This Taekwoon says fondly, slinging an arm around Hongbin’s shoulders to pull him close, nuzzling into his scarf-covered neck for the briefest of moments. “I love you.”

Hongbin’s in the middle of laughing, for no reason except that it’s cold and he’s tipsy and he’s got Taekwoon by his side, but the moment Taekwoon says those words he stops dead in his tracks, chilled down to the bone. Part of him honestly never thought he’d hear it, but most of him was hoping against hope that Taekwoon felt the same way, and to hear it—he could keel over with happiness. Instead he just pulls Taekwoon even closer. “Do you mean that?” he asks, because they’re both drunk, after all, maybe he didn’t mean it or maybe—

“With all my heart and soul,” Taekwoon replies seriously. His eyes over his scarf are serious, his gaze dark, and Hongbin shivers. “I love you, Hongbin. I’m never gonna stop saying it, and you don’t have to say it back if you’re not ready. But I just wanted to tell you. I love you.”

“Say it again,” Hongbin breathes, pulling Taekwoon’s scarf down and then pulling his own down too.

Taekwoon winces at the cold, but licks his lips and continues. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love—”

Even though Hongbin can’t say it back, not just yet, his heart is full to bursting as he leans in and kisses Taekwoon, right there in the middle of the road, not caring in the slightest if anyone is watching. In fact, he _hopes_ they are. He wants the whole world to bear witness to this, because he’s not sure he’s ever going to get happier than he is right now—he’s got everything he’s ever wanted in his arms, and he’s feeling joy the likes of which he’s never felt before.

“Let’s go home,” he whispers.

They practically sprint, Hongbin tugging Taekwoon along even when he complains good-naturedly and half-heartedly. Hongbin flings open the door to his apartment so enthusiastically his hatstand goes toppling to the floor, but he doesn’t even get the chance to right it before Taekwoon bears down on him, pressing him up against the wall and kissing him until he’s breathless. The alcohol and nicotine and the love Taekwoon has for him is pounding through his veins as they rip their clothes off—literally, in this case, since Hongbin accidentally pulls off one of the buttons on Taekwoon’s waistcoat—and fall to the bed, a tangle of limbs and messy, open-mouthed kisses.

“I wanna make you come,” Hongbin growls into Taekwoon’s ear, biting his lobe. “I wanna make you feel good.”

Taekwoon shudders and grinds his hips into Hongbin’s; the pressure and, thanks to Hongbin’s liberal use of oil he’d picked up for this exact purpose, slide of their cocks together is exquisite in the most torturous way. “Fuck, baby, you do,” he purrs, and opens his eyes to yank Hongbin’s hair. “You make me feel so good— _shit_.”

It’s rough and hurried and nothing more than mindless rutting against each other, like animals, but that’s exactly what they need. Taekwoon whines when Hongbin smacks his ass, grunts when Hongbin hitches his legs up around Taekwoon’s waist, and, when Hongbin pinches his nipple and bites his neck, comes with a shudder and a groan. Hongbin follows not long after, arching his back and closing his eyes, nothing but Taekwoon’s name running through his mind and beating in his heart.

They lay on the bed for ages afterwards, tracing patterns on each other’s skin with their fingertips. Taekwoon is extremely ticklish, so he keeps squirming when Hongbin brushes his waist, and the way he scrunches up his nose and complains is so charming Hongbin thinks, _knows_ , that nothing in life will ever come close to this.

“Say it again?” he murmurs as they’re drifting off to sleep, huddled together underneath the blankets.

Taekwoon cracks one eye open and smiles softly. “I love you.”

 

**_18th April 1924_ **   
**_Chicago, Illinois_ **

Hongbin falls in love with Taekwoon in increments.

He was already well on his way, but things change after Taekwoon says it first. Hongbin finds he doesn’t want to say it back until he’s completely certain, and seeing as he’s never been in love before, he doesn’t really know what he’s looking for.

It happens when Taekwoon turns up outside his work one afternoon with flowers (“if anyone asks, say we’re visiting my sweetheart,” he’d whispered with a wink) and gives them to him with a hug and a lightning-fast kiss on the cheek that no one sees. It happens when he picks Taekwoon up after he finishes a shift at Roxie’s and sees the expression on his face change so completely from surly to overjoyed. It happens when Taekwoon whispers “I love you” into every inch of his skin, imprinting him with the words until it’s all he knows. It happens when Taekwoon slides an arm around his waist and squeezes him briefly before skipping away—in broad daylight, no less. It happens when he forgets his coat but walks to Roxie’s anyway, and Taekwoon lends him his as they walk home. It happens when Taekwoon hand rolls him all his cigarettes and lights them for him. It happens as they whisper stupid loving promises to each other in the dead of night, promising they’ll never love anyone else, promising that they’ll always be together.

It’s not until Hongbin’s at work one day, doodling _JTW_ in the margins of his ledger instead of doing actual work, that it hits him with such suddenness he can’t breathe.

He loves Taekwoon.

The rest of the day drags impossibly slowly. They have plans that evening—Taekwoon’s parents and brother are out of town, so for the first time they’re going to his house—but they can’t come soon enough, and by the time five rolls around Hongbin’s chafing at the bit. He doesn’t even ask his boss for permission to take one of the demonstrator models and instead takes the keys to the Type V-63 he’d first used to pick up Taekwoon and drives downtown at the speed of light, even though he knows Taekwoon doesn’t finish until six.

“Hey there,” Taekwoon says conversationally as he approaches Hongbin—who’s leaning on the bonnet of the car smoking, trying to look suave to hide his nervousness and almost certainly failing. “How was work?”

“Swell,” he replies, and drops his cigarette butt on the ground. “Ready to go?”

“You know this means I’m gonna have to cook for you, right?” Taekwoon says as they swing into the car. “Father took all the staff with him.”

“Is that dangerous?”

Taekwoon looks over at him and smirks. It’s starting to get warm—warmer, at least—and so both windows are down and he’s got a hand on his hat so it doesn’t fly away. “Let’s just say there’s a reason I’m working as a piano player and not a chef,” he says, and Hongbin raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t know when to say it. Blurting it out as they drive seems awfully incongruous. Maybe he should wait until after dinner? But he honestly doesn’t know if he can wait that long. The words are burning in him, running through his mind, and it’s a wonder he doesn’t crash when all he can think, all he can see, is _I love you I love you I love you I love you._

They make it to Taekwoon’s house without incident—although how, Hongbin’s not sure—and then he’s being tugged towards the huge house, although if he’s being honest it terrifies him so much he sort of forgets how his legs work. Inside is no less intimidating. The entrance hall (what kind of house has an honest-to-God entrance hall?) is gilded with marble floors and there’s a marble staircase leading upwards, and Hongbin can’t even get a good look at the portraits hanging on the walls before Taekwoon pulls him up the stairs.

The rugs in the halls are so thick Hongbin’s shoes sink into them, and he takes his hat off out of deference, much as he would in a church, and stares in awe at the paintings as they walk. Eventually—finally—Taekwoon opens a door to reveal a huge but neat bedroom. “This is mine,” he says, and Hongbin blinks.

It’s the size of his entire _apartment_ , but where his apartment is full of trinkets—stupid souvenirs he’s picked up along the way, and postcards he’s pinned to the walls—this room is almost completely empty, devoid of any personality except the piano in the corner of the room, the leather on the bench well-worn. The only decoration is a huge landscape painting hanging across from the dreadfully old-fashioned four-poster bed; when Hongbin steps closer to examine it he finds he doesn’t recognise it. “Where’s this?”

“Montana, I think,” Taekwoon replies, coming up beside Hongbin and twining their fingers together. “My father picked it up years ago. I took a liking to it and asked for it to be moved in here.”

It depicts a lake with horses in the foreground, huge mountains towering over the background, and Hongbin shivers and turns away from it. It’s beautifully done, but not his thing, and he’s had enough countryside to last a lifetime—even if the landscape back home looks nothing like that. “This is ritzy,” he says honestly, because it is, even if it’s devoid of personality.

“It’s alright.” Shrugging, Taekwoon circles his arms around Hongbin’s waist and begins walking him backwards, towards the bed. “Soulless, how my father likes it.”

“You read my mind,” Hongbin laughs, twisting in Taekwoon’s arms to get the element of surprise and, once he has it, pushes him onto the bed. He settles on top of Taekwoon’s hips and loosens his tie. “Doing this feels like desecrating it, somehow.”

This makes Taekwoon laugh, and Hongbin can’t help but smile down at him as he unbuttons his waistcoat; Taekwoon laughing is a sight he’ll never, ever get sick of. “Desecrating it,” he gasps, and flings a hand over his eyes. “If you knew the type of dames my brother’s brought back to this place you’d have a heart attack. It’s been well and truly desecrated already, don’t you worry.”

“Good.” Hongbin makes quick work of his shirt and pulls it off, and at this Taekwoon stops laughing, his gaze going from one of amusement to one of arousal in seconds. “Because I plan to do all manner of filthy things to you…”

“Show me,” Taekwoon says, voice hoarse.

Hongbin undresses slowly, slapping Taekwoon’s hands away when he attempts to mirror the movements, and when he crawls back on top of him he’s completely naked, a deliberate contrast to the way Taekwoon is still fully clothed. It’s too easy to lean back on the bed, one arm propping himself up, and start stroking himself; Taekwoon reaches for him but Hongbin stops him in his tracks with a look.

“Just watch.”

Taekwoon sobs and squeezes his eyes shut, but it’s only for a second. When he opens them again he’s devouring Hongbin with his eyes and nothing more, and it’s intoxicating. Hongbin wants to fall face-first into those eyes and never escape. At this point, he’s not even sure he can escape from Taekwoon—all he knows is that he doesn’t want to, not now and not ever. As if to underscore this he grinds his hips in a slow circle, rubbing up against Taekwoon’s cock, smirking as he gasps and bucks up underneath him.

“I want to make you come,” he says matter-of-factly, knowing this tone drives Taekwoon wild, “without even laying a hand on you.”

Taekwoon hisses and grabs Hongbin by the hips, his fingernails digging in to the point of sweet pain. “If you keep going like that, I will— _Christ_ —” This last part is a reaction to Hongbin trailing his hands over Taekwoon’s chest. Even through the layers of his waistcoat and shirt he’s still so sensitive; it’s such a boon to Hongbin’s confidence.

He strokes himself lazily, just enjoying Taekwoon’s reactions, letting Taekwoon move him to get off; it’s the most luxurious sex they’ve ever had, and Hongbin relishes every second of it. He waits until Taekwoon’s close, his own orgasm awfully close too, before he leans down to grab Taekwoon’s chin and force him to _look_ , to _see_. “I love you,” he breathes.

“Fuck!” Taekwoon snarls. His eyes roll back in his head as he comes grinding into Hongbin’s ass, nonsense falling from his lips. It’s beautiful, and as the tremors of aftershocks run through him, as he runs a hand through his hair and opens his eyes, Hongbin knows this is it, this is all he wants.

“Come for me, baby,” Taekwoon breathes, sitting up suddenly and wrapping both arms around Hongbin’s waist so they’re pressed up against each other. Like this he can pull Hongbin in for a kiss, biting and fierce. “I love you.”

Hongbin buries his head in the crook of Taekwoon’s neck as his orgasm hits him, hard and fast and blinding, and for a few moments it’s all he can do to hold on and shudder and keen and whine. When it’s over, neither of them make any moves to get up. Instead they just stay there, their sweat rapidly cooling, Taekwoon tracing abstract patterns in Hongbin’s skin with his fingertips.

“Did you mean that?” he whispers.

He sounds so small and scared that Hongbin pulls away in shock—grimacing when he realises they’ve both got come on them—and cups Taekwoon’s face in his hands, searching his face for any sign that he really thinks that he was lying. “Of course I did. I love you so much.”

A smile spreads across Taekwoon’s face, big and slow, and when he pulls Hongbin in for a kiss that tastes like pure joy he thinks it _cannot ever possibly get better than this._

They take a bath—at Hongbin’s insistence, because all he has in his tiny apartment is a shower, and so a bathtub is a luxury the likes of which he hasn’t seen in years—and spend so long in the water they get cold and when they finally get out their fingers are all wrinkly. Hongbin puts a towel over Taekwoon’s head to dry his hair for him, and he doesn’t _mean_ to turn either of them on when he slides into Taekwoon’s lap but, well, they’re both so wet and slippery that it doesn’t take long for the both of them to get hard again. They come gasping into each other’s mouths, Hongbin holding back tears because he swears he’s about to fall apart from all the love flowing through him, and this time they clean themselves off with towels instead of bathing again, even as Hongbin grumbles.

“Now,” Taekwoon says as they head to the kitchen wearing nothing but their boxers and white cotton sleeveless shirts, because it’s not as if there’s anyone else around to see them. “Hungry?”

He hadn’t realised it, but now that Taekwoon says it, his stomach rumbles and he presses a hand to it and grimaces. “Ravenous, actually.”

“I think we have some eggs somewhere. I hope you like them scrambled, because that’s really the only way I know how to do them.”

The mention of scrambled eggs brings memories of his mother to his mind; she always used to make him scrambled eggs when he was a kid, even when he complained. He finds that he misses her suddenly with an intensity he hasn’t felt since he was first getting used to living alone, and squeezes Taekwoon’s hand to distract himself. “Scrambled eggs sound good.”

He sits on the kitchen island (marble, of course) as Taekwoon cooks, laughing when he burns the first set of eggs beyond repair and has to start over. The kitchen, just like Taekwoon’s bedroom, is clean but clinical, although he supposes a house this huge would have a cook and maids. This is confirmed when Taekwoon confesses a few moments later that he only learnt how to do this from watching the cook as a child; Hongbin just shakes his head, wondering what the hell his daddy would think of a house big enough to have a cook to make your meals for you.

“Where’s the bathroom?” he asks as Taekwoon’s cracking the second lot of eggs into the skillet.

“Down the hall and to the right. Second door.”

On his way back he takes the opportunity to snoop shamelessly, because when else is he going to get the chance to do this? The portraits hanging in the entrance hall seem to be of relatives—there’s one of a man in an officer’s uniform, standing tall and proud, and Hongbin squints at it, trying to see a resemblance. Taekwoon’s father? Hongbin’s own father didn’t fight in the war (he was never drafted, thank God) but he saw too many of his friends’ fathers go and return changed, distant, cold. He shivers and turns away from the painting.

Off to the left is an extravagantly-furnished parlour which he pokes around in for a few moments—the furniture is pristine, without a scuff anywhere, and the level of wealth in just this room alone is staggering to comprehend—before spotting a row of photographs on the mantle above the fireplace and making a beeline for them. The first is of the same man from the portrait, wearing an old-fashioned suit and sporting a huge grin; next to him is a small, lithe woman in a wedding dress, smiling and staring up at her husband adoringly. This must be Taekwoon’s parents—the woman’s smile is so like Taekwoon’s Hongbin has to do a double take. The next photo along is of three children, two boys and a girl, and he supposes it’s Taekwoon and his siblings as children. The rest of the photos are of miscellaneous family members he doesn’t recognise, until he reaches the end of the mantle and spots the last photo—it’s Taekwoon, and taken recently, if the way he wears his hair is any clue. When Hongbin picks it up and peers closer at it, he can see at the bottom a tiny inscription that reads _February 1924._

His blood runs cold.

Taekwoon is standing stiff and arm-in-arm with a woman Hongbin doesn’t recognise, smiling widely at the camera and looking joyous. Taekwoon’s parents are on one side, an older couple (who must be the woman’s parents) on the other, and when he squints closer, bringing the photo right up to his face, he’s nearly sick all over the floor.

Both Taekwoon and the woman are wearing rings—just blurry dots of light in the photograph, but rings for sure—on their left hands.

“What,” he says calmly, appearing back in the kitchen with the photograph in hand, “is this?”

“What is what?” Taekwoon replies, turning with a smile—but when he sees what Hongbin is holding his expression changes so fast Hongbin feels like he’s going to faint. He looks horrified. He looks _scared_. “Hongbin—”

“What,” Hongbin says again, holding the photograph over his head and walking backwards as Taekwoon tries to reach for it, “is this?”

“You were never meant to see it—”

“What the fuck is this!” Hongbin shrieks, aware he’s hysterical but unable to cope in any other way, also aware his accent is slipping through dreadfully. “Explain what this is right now Taekwoon or I’ll walk out of this house and you’ll never see me again—”

Taekwoon looks pained, but whatever expression Hongbin is wearing must convince him he’s serious, because he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Sit down.”

They sit in the living room, Hongbin still clutching the photo with shaking hands. Taekwoon is unable to look at him in the eyes, and it’s this that makes his heart beat faster, more than anything else, more than even the photo itself. “I don’t know how to tell you,” he says, and Hongbin wants to smack him upside the head.

“Just say it.”

Taekwoon shrugs. “Fine.” He exhales shakily, fixes his eyes at a spot over Hongbin’s shoulder. “I’m engaged. To a woman. That woman, in the photo.”

“No,” Hongbin moans, clapping a hand over his mouth.

But Taekwoon does not relent. “It was arranged by my parents. We’re getting married next spring. It’s a marriage of convenience. Her family is wealthy as well.” At this, he looks at Hongbin, the pain in his face so blatant Hongbin wants to throw up his soul. “I said I was an heir, but I didn’t say what of. My family are in the liquor business. Prohibition has hit us hard. We apparently need the money she will bring with her.” At this his controlled veneer breaks, and he reaches for Hongbin’s hands. “I don’t love her, Hongbin. I don’t even like her. I don’t want anything to do with her. You have no idea how much I fought my parents, but they just wouldn’t listen… I don’t earn enough to move out and cut myself off from them. But she’s not you. This doesn’t change anything—”

“Doesn’t change anything?” At this, Hongbin drops the photo on the ground, hears the glass shatter. “How can you say that this won’t change anything? You’re getting _married_ , Taekwoon. What did you expect, that you’d just—just cheat on your wife? With _me?_ For how fucking long?” Taekwoon falls miserably silent, and Hongbin sits back, appalled. “Were you even going to tell me?”

“I—”

Hongbin gets up and backs away, wrapping his arms around himself. His heart is breaking. He’s given it to Taekwoon and he’s crushing it underfoot. “I wanted a life with you,” he breathes, eyes wide as he realises that—this is the end. They can’t come back from this. “I wanted to—I wanted to travel with you. To buy a house together some day—”

“You have to know that would never be possible,” Taekwoon interrupts, and when Hongbin looks, properly looks at him, he sees that he’s crying soundlessly, tears making their way down his cheeks. “I thought you knew that.”

Hongbin recoils like Taekwoon has just slapped him across the face, one hand pressed to his chest as if to contain the hurt that he’s feeling. “And so—what? You were just going to continue to—to lie to me? To play happy families with me while you had a wife at home, a wife who probably adores you? You were just going to keep stringing me along with promises that you knew could never come true—” He cuts himself off violently and claps a hand over his mouth in case he is actually sick. He’s certain he’s dying, and if he’s not, he wishes he was. “I can’t do this.”

“Wait—”

But Hongbin doesn’t wait. He runs to Taekwoon’s bedroom and throws on his clothes haphazardly, not able to hide his tears, sobbing as he pulls his jacket on and turns to go. He runs into Taekwoon on the landing and pushes past him, but Taekwoon grabs his arm and pulls him back. “I didn’t have a choice,” he sobs, falling to his knees. “I don’t have a choice—I can’t just leave—please don’t leave me, I love you, I love you.”

“No you don’t,” Hongbin spits, and shoves Taekwoon away even as he feels his heart tear cleanly in two. “You don’t know what love is.”

He runs with tears blurring his eyes, shoves the keys in the ignition of the car, peels out of the garage with a spray of gravel that hits the side of the fancy house. He hopes it breaks some fucking windows. He hopes Taekwoon has to explain to his parents why the glass in that photo is fractured. He hopes Taekwoon enjoys the life he’s resigned himself to.

He refuses to look in his rearview mirror, because he knows that if he does, the sight of Taekwoon standing forlornly and alone in the driveway will prove to undo him—and there’s been enough hurt here tonight. He simply cannot handle any more.

He drives through the loneliest city in the world, crying his eyes out, mourning what could have been, what should have been, what never will be.

 

**_18th July 1929_ **   
**_Camilla, Georgia_ **

“Hongbin!”

He traipses out of his bedroom, barely-dressed and with one eye open against the dawn, yawning. “I’m here,” he says, taking the cup of coffee that his mother thrusts at him. “What is it today?”

“Your daddy wants your help mending fences in the top paddock,” she replies curtly, already turning back to the sink. How she manages to be this chipper—when she’s been up since long before dawn—Hongbin doesn’t have a clue, considering she doesn’t even drink coffee, but it’s grating when the sun is only just beginning to rise.

“The top paddock?” he asks, not sure if he heard her right. “That means I gotta ride out there.”

“Yes you do, and I took the liberty of bringing in your horse for you,” she says, although the way she pronounces it makes it sound more like ‘hoss’. “So go and tack up and git.”

Hongbin downs the coffee in one go and hands her back the empty mug before stepping out onto the porch and stretching. It’s been five years since he returned back home, and he’s still not used to waking up this early—not that he ever was, really.

He’d returned home in May of 1924, simply unable to stay in Chicago anymore. Everywhere he went he saw Taekwoon’s ghost. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t even think; in the end he’d handed in his letter of resignation, send a letter home to tell his parents he was coming, and booked a one-way ticket to Georgia. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget his mother’s expression when she came to pick him up at the station (in the buggy, of course, since his family isn’t nearly rich enough to afford a car). She’d taken one look at his face and softened, pulling him in for a hug; he’d fought hard to stop himself from crying on her, but he knows he wasn’t successful. “What happened?” she murmured, stroking his hair. When he hadn’t answered, she had just sighed. “Did someone break your heart?”

He’d nodded, miserable, and spent the whole ride home clenching and unclenching his hands on his lap, terrified of what his father would say. But for once—the first time—in his life he hadn’t been cruel. Instead he’d just clapped Hongbin on the shoulder, said, “It’s good to have you back, son,” and let him be.

Taekwoon rarely crosses his mind anymore.

He rides out to the top paddock still half-asleep. His father greets him with a grunt and a hand wave before tossing him a pair of gloves, and together they get to work fixing the fences; it’s demanding work, especially in the height of summer, and when they break for lunch they’re both sweating terribly. They don’t speak as they eat sandwiches from Hongbin’s father’s saddlebags—made by his mother earlier, no doubt—and pass a canteen of water back and forth. He kind of enjoys doing this, actually, even though it’s physically backbreaking work. It’s simple and easy and his father never asks him questions as long as he keeps his head down and goes to church every Sunday, which he does. It’s a routine that can be depended on, and routine is what he needs.

They finish mid-afternoon, and even though Hongbin’s sweated through his shirt entirely and his back aches and he’s got cuts all up his arms, he feels satisfied as they stand back and look at the fence. “You heading back?” he asks, walking over to his horse and giving her a pat on the neck.

His father grunts, a noise that Hongbin takes as a no. “Gonna check on the damned beasts,” he says, which is what he calls the cattle.

So Hongbin rides back lazily, taking his feet out of the stirrups and letting them dangle, sipping water from his canteen and trying to enjoy the scenery. He misses the city sometimes, misses the hustle and bustle and the jazz and the speakeasies; most of all he misses booze, which he hasn’t touched since he came back. It makes living here very boring, but his parents seem relieved to have him back—even after five years—and therefore haven’t tried to push him into getting married or anything quite like that. The three of them just work on the farm, keeping their heads down and carrying on, and Hongbin tells himself he’s content like that.

He can see, as he approaches the house, that there’s a car in the driveway, which isn’t necessarily unusual. Some of the women from church have cars, and Hongbin knows they often visit his mother in the middle of the day; they sit around and play cards and talk about whatever it is that women talk about, while Hongbin and his father make themselves scarce. This car is new and fancy, and he pulls up next to it and lets his horse sniff it as he takes it all in; the back seat is full of suitcases, but he shrugs and clicks at his horse, getting her to move on. Someone in town is moving on, it seems.

He takes his time grooming his horse methodically, whistling to himself and keeping his mind deliberately blank, because it’s times like these—when his hands are busy but his mind is empty—that thoughts of Taekwoon tend to pop into his head. It’s stupid, especially because it’s been so long. Who the hell pines after someone from five years ago? So it’s just easier to think of nothing at all but the work he’s doing, and he gives his horse one last pat before leading her into her stall and dumping a bunch of hay into her bucket.

“‘M home,” he calls, kicking off his boots and pulling off his hat, bashing it on his pants because he knows she hates when he tracks dust through the kitchen. “When’s dinner? I’m starving.”

His mother isn’t in the kitchen, so he heads to the living room, thinking of nothing at all except what they’re going to eat for dinner and what he’s going to do tomorrow—maybe he’ll ride into town and see if there’s anything going on—and so when he steps into the living room and sees Taekwoon sitting at the table having coffee with his mother, he just stops and stares.

“Hello,” Taekwoon says awkwardly.

He’s torn between throwing his hat at Taekwoon’s head and leaping across the room to kiss him, and the fact that the second thought even pops up is worrying, considering his mother is sitting there watching them very carefully. Taekwoon looks the same; he’s wearing his hair a little differently, and the suit he’s wearing isn’t as fancy as the ones he used to wear, but he’s the same, unerringly so—five years have passed him by entirely. Whereas Hongbin couldn’t be more different than the side of himself he presented in Chicago: he’s dressed for work, in a sweaty shirt and no doubt covered in dust and dirt.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, voice hoarse, and he takes a step back involuntarily. All the hurt from the last time he saw Taekwoon is rushing back into him in droves, choking him, and he hates himself for looking at Taekwoon’s left hand for a wedding ring. Nothing.

His mother stands up. “You two go out on the porch and talk this out,” she says, and when he turns to look at her he can see the kindness in her eyes. “Go on. Go.”

Hongbin does, feeling somehow simultaneously small and old. He realises, as he stares at it, that this car must be Taekwoon’s, and turns away from it so violently he nearly gives himself whiplash. “Not here,” he hisses, beckoning for Taekwoon to follow—because he knows his mother will be eavesdropping on every word.

They end up in the stables. Hongbin’s horse sticks her head out of her stall, giving him a good excuse to not look at Taekwoon; he’s like the sun, blinding in his indignation, and Hongbin still isn’t sure if he hates him or loves him. The pain inside him is almost too much to handle. He thought he’d escaped this, thought he’d come to the place where Taekwoon would never follow… And yet here he is.

“Why?” is all he says, scratching his horse behind the ears, staring into her eyes so he doesn’t have to see whatever expression Taekwoon is wearing.

“Why am I here? Or…”

“Why?” he asks, this time looking at Taekwoon, letting him see the extent of hurt on his face.

Taekwoon blanches at that, and puts both hands in his pockets, pulling out a cigarette and a book of matches. Old habits die hard, it seems. “I never stopped loving you,” he says after lighting the cigarette and inhaling deeply. The smoke colours his words, making them disingenuous, even as Hongbin wants to believe—or does he? His head hurts. “I couldn’t stop… thinking about you. I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Not once.”

“And yet it took you five years to come.”

Wincing, Taekwoon looks at the ground. “I deserve that.”

“You deserve worse.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“I _loved_ you.”

“I know.”

The smell of the smoke is making Hongbin feel like he’s going insane, slowly, piece by piece. Maybe this is a hallucination. Not once since he left Chicago has he dared to hope that he’d ever see Taekwoon again; he honestly had tried his damned best to close that chapter and put it behind him, determined to forget. What was the point? If Taekwoon couldn’t have the courage to live his own life, there was nothing Hongbin could have said to convince him. And yet here he is, without a wedding ring and with a car full of suitcases. It’s too much.

“Why are you here?” he asks finally. “Do you really think that we can just… continue where we left off? Like nothing ever happened? I mean, Jesus, Taekwoon. You let me believe that we were going to be happy together for the rest of our lives and then ripped that future away from me and gave me something _worse_. I would have had to come second to your wife, to your _life_ , the whole time.”

“I never married her,” Taekwoon whispers, cutting Hongbin off from his tirade.

“You—what?”

Taekwoon looks up. “I never married her. I refused. They threatened to disown me, said horrible things… But they couldn’t force me. So I never did.”

He doesn’t know what to do with that information, so he just narrows his eyes and folds his arms to hide the way his hands are shaking. “Why are you _here?”_

“For you.” Taekwoon takes a slow step closer, clearly unsure if this is allowed. “As I said. I haven’t stopped thinking about you.” He hesitates, peers at Hongbin. “I don’t think you’ve stopped thinking about me either.”

“You don’t know me,” Hongbin snaps back, hating the way that even Taekwoon’s presence is making him tremble—he’s weak, and it’s despicable. If he knows what’s good for him he should just tell Taekwoon to fuck off and that’ll be the end of it, for good this time.

But Taekwoon smiles and reaches for him, and he sways into the touch and they meet somewhere in the middle. “Yes, I do.”

“I could have changed in the last five years, you don’t know,” he whispers, putting his hand on Taekwoon’s where it’s cupping his cheek.

“But you haven’t.”

As if to prove his point, Taekwoon leans in and kisses him, and Hongbin feels that kiss down to his toes—it’s a promise and an apology and pure desperation and need all rolled into one. He shivers. “Why are there suitcases in your car?” he whispers, pulling back so he doesn’t actually push Taekwoon into a stall right here and now and have his way with him.

At this Taekwoon smirks. “They’re my life possessions. I learnt how to drive. I’m not selling moonshine, though. And we’re already south of the Mason-Dixon line, so I guess I made it…”

“Shut up,” Hongbin snaps, because Taekwoon is just taunting him with these childish fantasies.

“I’m not joking. It’s all I have left. I’m estranged from my family. I haven’t spoken to them in months.”

“So why are you here?”

He keeps circling back to this question because he wants Taekwoon to come out and say what he really wants, whatever that is; they’re both guarded, dancing around each other, wary.

“I want you to come on the road with me,” Taekwoon says around his cigarette, eyes too-shrewd. “I want us to travel wherever the hell we want to. Find someplace nice. Settle down. Do everything we said we would do but didn’t.”

Longing blooms in his chest, sharp and painful, and instead of letting it show on his face he bends down to fiddle with his boots, even though there’s nothing wrong with them. Oh, he wishes, because now that Taekwoon is standing in front of him he can no longer deny that he ever stopped loving him—but he’s not a fool, and he’s not about to do the same thing over and over expecting a different outcome. It didn’t work before. What makes him think it could work again?

“You’ll just break my heart again,” he grumbles, standing up.

“I won’t.”

“How do you know?”

Taekwoon pulls him close again. “Because I’d have to break mine first, and that hurt enough the first time around.”

Hongbin snorts. “Such a romantic.”

But Taekwoon’s not laughing—he’s deadly serious, grim, even, and it’s startling to see; the Taekwoon of five years ago never stopped laughing. But then, where they are now couldn’t be further from a cold, snowy rooftop in Chicago. He supposes it’s logical that they’ve both changed, too. Does he even dare to take a chance, to throw his heart over the void and to fling himself after it? Is the risk greater than the reward?

“Please,” Taekwoon whispers, his lips millimetres from Hongbin’s own. “Come with me.”

Hongbin doesn’t say anything.

“I love you,” Taekwoon says into Hongbin’s lips like he wants Hongbin to devour the words. “I love you, Hongbin. Come with me. I never stopped loving you.”

He only hesitates for a moment more before closing his eyes and leaps into the breach, pulling Taekwoon into a kiss, daring to let his heart sing once more. It’s gentle and soft and everything he didn’t realise he missed, and the way they smile against each other’s lips feels an awful lot like hope.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not american and i've never been to chicago (or georgia) so pls don't drag me if I got anything wrong LOL
> 
> so I wrote this because I watched _Chicago_ too many times (it's one of my favourite movies and it's SO GOOD) (I hope you caught some of the sneaky references to it hehe) and I got inspired, and I figured writing a quick one shot would be a great way for me to drag myself out of my writer's block slump thing I was in, except true to form it didn't turn out quick and instead ended up this long. I wrote this across three nights (I'm surprised my keyboard didn't start smoking from how fast I churned this out?), including eleven thousand words tonight (yeah I smashed my personal best of 8k in one night and then some lmfao) and i'm a bit rusty coming off the back of my hiatus BUT! I hope you enjoyed anyway!
> 
> as always, thanks for reading, and pls leave a comment if you enjoyed!!


End file.
